


why'd you only call me when you're high?

by owenwilsonvevo



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Praise Kink, Recreational Drug Use, Riding, brian has a man bun, its not really relevant to the plot i just felt like it was important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 09:24:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17423225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owenwilsonvevo/pseuds/owenwilsonvevo
Summary: “You’re a bratanda tease,” he says, still looking at the bare skin Roger’s freed at his thighs, around his waist. Roger knows exactly how he feels — hazy, a little love drunk, very stoned.“Yes,” he agrees, stretching again, letting the shirt slip further off his shoulder, “and you’re so lucky to have me. Look how pretty I am.”





	why'd you only call me when you're high?

**Author's Note:**

> me again! back again with my second prompt fill in two weeks because im so motivated and super good at meeting deadlines :^) also I wrote the majority of this last night when I super high
> 
> before we get started: the prompt was literally just “get high and bone” and as we all know im the number one (1) bottom rog stan so that’s what I wrote BUT if this is your prompt and you actually only like bottom brian and just forgot to mention it in the prompt let me know and ill try again! we’ll make it a series of them just smoking different things and banging in different positions 
> 
> anyway! enjoy (hopefully)! 
> 
> ps. i decided the other day that rog definitely has a praise kink and that’s why i keep writing it into everything sorry not sorry about it

It’s twelve past noon on the last Wednesday of July and the air is thick and heavy. It’s a stifling sort of summer day, the sky outside hanging low to the ground. It’s cloudless, the sun high and bright and a touch too warm outside the windows. They’re all open, curtains thrown back to try and let some sort of air into the still, stuffy heat of the flat. 

The air conditioner is broken, had been since the third week of May when the summer heat had officially started to set in. It was an old thing, had already been in the flat, lodged in the window, when Roger and Freddie had moved in, and it made a horrible grinding sound whenever it got turned up too high. That day in May, it had been so hot it was making them both unbearably cranky, and after Roger had thrown a mug of tea at him Freddie had cranked the AC and turned the music up louder to drown out the shriek of a sound it made. It worked, but then sound got worse, and then the bloody thing started to pour smoke out the window before suddenly, it just stopped. It stopped smoking, it stopped shrieking, it stopped pumping out any sort of cool air. They’ve tried, but they haven’t been able to get it to turn back on, no matter how many times they’ve hit the side of it. 

It’s unfortunate, because it’s only gotten hotter, and no cool air means that it’s gotten too hot to leave the windows shut. They’re all opened so wide the sun is slanting into the flat unhindered, warming Roger’s sticky, already overheated skin. It’s the sort of late summer day that’s too hot, that settles into Roger’s bones and makes him lazy, placid. He’s stretched out across the living room carpet, his head pillowed in Brian’s lap. He’s wearing his shirt, oversized on Brian so properly massive on him, the bottom of it hanging partway down his thighs. It’s thin, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, unbuttoned most of the way down his chest. It’s hanging off of one shoulder, hot against his skin where it’s warming in the sunlight, but he’s determined to keep it on because he knows how hard Brian gets off on seeing him wearing his clothes. He’s wearing his shirt and not a lot else, save for a skin tight pair of boxer briefs that don’t really leave anything to the imagination. 

Brian’s in a similar state of undress, leaning back against the bottom of the couch, hair pulled into a messy knot at the nape of his neck. He’d lost his shirt to the heat not long after he’d gotten there and Roger had nicked it from him immediately. He’d started out in shorts but those have gone too, folded neatly on the couch behind him. He’s down to his boxers, one hand in Roger’s hair, scratching gently at his scalp. He has a joint in his other hand, expertly rolled, because Roger is a man of steady hands and many talents, if he does say so himself. 

Freddie’s gone out, over to Deaky’s flat for a shag in a unit with proper, working air conditioning. Left alone and to his own devices, stretched out in the living room because the window in his bedroom is jammed shut, he’d texted Brian a series of increasingly suggestive shirtless selfies until he’d dragged himself into the thick of the summer heat and over to Roger’s building to keep him company. Brian has a perfectly good flat of his own, one that has an air conditioner that never turns off, actually, and is quite a problem in the winter, but his flat comes with a flatmate, Tim, who doesn’t let Roger smoke inside and who’s expressly forbade them from fucking on any of the communal furniture. Freddie had too, actually, but Freddie leaves the flat enough that the furniture is fair game and what he doesn’t know, he can blissfully pretend never happened. Tim never really leaves, and he spends most of his time in the communal space, on the communal furniture, barring them from fucking on it. There are few things in the world that bring Roger as much joy as getting shagged in places he’s been expressly forbade from getting shagged, so Brian’s flat isn’t usually a viable option. 

Despite the complete lack of respite from the heat, his own works well enough. There’s an ashtray by his right hip and long, gentle fingers in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. Brian is looming above him, all sharp angles and high cheekbones and tired, half lidded eyes. Roger can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be. 

He watches, eyes hooded, as Brian takes another long, lazy pull off the joint in his hand. His cheeks hollow, and Roger can’t keep himself from slowly reaching a hand up to brush his fingertips against the taut skin. Brian’s hand leaves his hair, which is extremely unfortunate, but just as he starts to whine in protest he makes it up to him by curling his fingers around his wrist, pressing a kiss to Roger’s open palm. Roger smiles, a slow, lazy thing, and pulls his hand free to thumb across Brian’s lower lip. Brian presses another kiss to his hand, this time to the pad of his thumb, exhaling a lungful of smoke against Roger’s fingertips. His smile is crooked against his skin, and Roger traces his lower lip again, entranced. “You should come down here and kiss me,” he decides. 

Strands of hair have escaped the tight hold of Brian’s elastic, loose curls that hang into his face and stick to his skin as he sweats. “You could come up here and kiss me.” 

His voice is low, gravelly in a way that means he feels the same way that Roger’s feeling, hot and high and content. “We both know that’s not gonna happen,” he says. Brian hums, his hand finding the sensitive skin of Roger’s stomach, visible where the buttons of his shirt are undone. 

He shivers. He can’t help it, looking up at Brian, pouting out his lower lip until he rolls his eyes and leans down to kiss him. It’s a slow, languid, hot summer afternoon sort of kiss. Roger brings a hand up to grip the back of Brian’s neck, pulling him closer, goosebumps breaking out across his skin despite the heat, despite the fire that’s been started in the pit of his stomach, licking up his chest from the inside. 

He whines in protest when Brian finally pulls away, rolling his head to one side. “You’re a brat,” he says. 

Roger grins up at him. “You’re in love with me.” 

“Not intentionally,” he says. 

“You’re in love with me and you can’t imagine your life without me,” he corrects, lifting a hand to take the joint from him, stretching the slightest bit more than necessary. His shirt rises higher up his thighs as he moves, and Brian isn’t subtle as he tracks the movement with his eyes. Roger watches him from beneath his eyelashes with a smirk. “See something you like?” 

Brian’s hand travels lower down his stomach, stops just as his fingertips disappear beneath Roger’s waistband. Roger arches again, slightly less intentional this time. “You’re a brat _and_ a tease,” he says, still looking at the bare skin Roger’s freed at his thighs, around his waist. Roger knows exactly how he feels — hazy, a little love drunk, very stoned. 

“Yes,” he agrees, stretching again, letting the shirt slip further off his shoulder, “and you’re so lucky to have me. Look how pretty I am.” 

He holds the joint to his lips slowly, waiting until Brian can lift his gaze to his mouth before he inhales, deep and slow. He holds the smoke in his chest for a minute, waits until it’s starting to make his head swim before he flicks the roach into the ashtray and snakes a hand up Brian’s chest to curl his fingers around the back of his neck. He pulls Brian closer to him, and Brian leans over again, placating, and lets Roger slot their lips together to exhale the thick plume of smoke into his mouth. Brian hums against him, holding onto the smoke as he kisses Roger again, quicker and more forceful. 

Roger‘s quick to grip Brian’s hair with his other hand, holding him close as he kisses him. Obligingly, he doesn’t pull away, exhaling the smoke through his nose as he pushes his hand further beneath the fabric of his boxer briefs to curl his fingers around Roger’s cock. Roger makes a gasp of a sound into his mouth, lifting his hips to press into the touch, fingers tightening in Brian’s hair, around the back of his neck. Brian hums again, breaking away slowly but only pulling back far enough to watch Roger’s eyelashes flutter as he starts to stroke him, agonizingly slow. 

“How pretty you are,” he murmurs, and Roger gasps again. He loves Brian, he loves every version of Brian, he even loves the version of Brian that gets off on telling him when he’s wrong about something — but this Brian, high and lazy, calm and confident, it gets to Roger. He doesn’t know what it is, but when Brian gets high, he gets kind of cocky, and when he gets kind of cocky Roger can’t get Brian inside him fast enough. 

He keeps a hand in Brian’s hair, holding to it tightly, making a mess of the already messy knot it had been pulled in to. He grips his wrist with the other hand, the one that disappears beneath his waistband, his hand moving on Roger’s cock, so deliciously slow that he can’t keep himself from rocking in time. “I thought you didn’t love me?” He reminds him, trying to keep his voice steady as his breath leaves him in soft, short pants. 

Brian presses a short kiss to his lips, and Roger can feel his smirk, can hear it in his voice when he says, “how can I not love you? Look at you. A wet dream, you are.” 

The praise makes the flame in Roger’s stomach burn a little hotter. He squirms, nails biting into the skin of Brian’s wrist. “Yeah?” 

When Brian smiles, it’s crooked. “Yeah,” he agrees. He thumbs over the head of his cock, wrenches another gasp from somewhere deep in Roger’s chest. 

“Fuck. Tell me again,” he demands. 

“Tell you again?” Brian asks, much slower, more languid, in no hurry to give Roger what he wants. 

“Tell me again,” he repeats. 

“You want to hear again how pretty you are?” He asks. He’s never been much good at dirty talk, but he has a weird knack for making Roger squirm, for saying exactly the right thing to get under his skin, to make his blood run through his veins just a little bit hotter. He kisses Roger again, a phantom brush of lips against his own. “You don’t need me to tell you,” he says, still talking too slowly, his hand moving on his cock only the smallest bit more quickly. “You know how pretty you are.” 

“Tell me,” he demands again. He needs it, but Brian only lifts a brow, this confident, cocky, very stoned version of Brian that flicks his wrist, watching as Roger shivers again. 

“What’s the magic word?” He asks. 

“Please,” Roger tacks on, breath hitching as he starts to stroke him the smallest bit more quickly. 

Brian runs his free hand through Roger’s hair, pushing back his fringe, matted to his forehead with sweat. “My pretty boy,” he murmurs, and Roger tilts his head back, rocks his hips just a little. “Look at you. So beautiful.” He runs his fingers through Roger’s hair again. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe you’re mine. I can’t believe I get to see you like this. How lucky I am, that I have the most beautiful boy.” He pets gently over Roger’s hair again, stroking his cock more quickly, ripping another gasp out of him. “Good boy,” he says in that slow, lazy voice, and that’s it for Roger. He can’t take it. 

With the hand in his hair, he wrenches Brian down to him again, silencing him with a kiss that’s nearly bruising. He keeps his other hand curled around his wrist, keeping Brian’s hand pressed firmly against his cock as he sits up, careful not to break the kiss. He swings one leg over Brian’s thighs, straddling him, rocking again into the curl of his hand. “I want you,” he says against his lips, but he doesn’t bother to pull back at all so the words are lost in Brian’s mouth. 

It’s another moment before he can actually pull away, putting a sliver of distance between him and Brian. Brian doesn’t let him get very far before he’s pulling him back in, pressing wet kisses down the column of his throat. It’s distracting, and Roger almost forgets what he was trying to say until Brian thumbs over the head of his cock with one hand and pushes the other up the back of his shirt. 

Brian has big hands and long, slender fingers, and Roger can feel the way one of his hands spans across most of the small of his back. His touch burns, but still, Roger shivers. “Fuck me,” he says, clearer this time. “I want you inside me.” 

Brian groans, a drawn out rasp of a sound, taking his hand from Roger’s back to reach behind him and fumble with his shorts, to free his wallet from the confines of his pocket. He has long, slender fingers, but they’re made clumsy by the heat and the high, and Roger doesn’t have the saintly patience to wait for him to finally get the fucking thing free. He rocks up on his knees, leaning over Brian’s shoulder to tug his wallet from his pocket and flip it open on the couch, fishing out a packet of lube. “Hurry,” he urges, dropping back down into Brian’s lap, and he can feel the strain of his cock beneath him, pressing into the thin fabric of his boxers. Brian groans again. Roger tears open the packet and presses it into his palm. “Need to feel you.” 

“Such a filthy mouth on you,” Brian murmurs, uncurling his fingers from around Roger’s cock, slowly pulling his hand from his shorts. Instantly, Roger misses his touch, but he bites his tongue to keep himself from whining as he watches Brian grip the packet of lube in one hand. “Are you going to take these off for me?” He asks, tugging at Roger’s boxer briefs with the other. 

Roger rocks up on his knees, pulling them down slowly. “The shirt, too?” He asks, like he doesn’t already know, like he can’t see the way Brian’s eyes darken as he looks him over, totally naked apart from his mostly open shirt. “Or would you like me to keep it on?” 

“Keep it on,” Brian says, rough, and Roger smiles innocently, lowering himself back into his lap and settling over his cock. He grinds down impatiently, watching Brian make quick work of slicking up his fingers. It‘s after a lifetime that he finally pulls Roger closer by the thigh, tugging him closer until they’re sitting chest to chest, Roger’s knees pressed against the couch behind him. Brian presses another kiss to the hollow of his throat as finally trails his hand around Roger’s back, as he brushes the faintest of touches over his hole. 

Roger shivers. “Hurry,” he demands. 

“Always so bossy,” Brian says, but he’s quick to oblige, rubbing a soothing hand over Roger’s hip as he eases two fingers into him. 

Roger lets his head loll against Brian’s shoulder, exhaling heavily against the side of his neck. “If I didn’t tell you what to do we’d never get past second base,” he says, hissing softly into his skin as Brian slowly curls his fingers. 

“Is that what you think?” He asks.

“ _Yes_ ,” Roger hisses again, digging his nails impatiently into the nape of Brian’s neck. “Now _hurry_.“ 

“Impatient, too,” Brian drawls. 

“I’m sorry,” Roger says, not sorry in the least, “did you _not_ want me to ride you?” 

For emphasis, he pushes back against Brian’s fingers, who, to his part, starts to work him open in earnest, messy and slick. He has obscene hands, sinfully long fingers, and it’s hard and without hesitation that he suddenly presses against Roger’s prostate, making him jerk in his lap. The noise that comes out of him, unintentional, is a breathy thing he gasps against the side of Brian’s throat, and he pushes back again, impatient for more, harder, quicker. Brian thumbs over his navel as he eases a third finger into him, curling them against his prostate at once and making Roger cry out. 

“So pretty like this,” Brian says, and Roger rocks his hips again, gasping into Brian’s skin. It burns, the stretch of his fingers, moving inside him, it burns but it isn’t enough. He rocks back again, fucks himself on Brian’s fingers, feels them press against his prostate again and shudders in Brian’s arms. Brian groans, and Roger can feel it in his chest. 

“Fuck,” he says, and his voice sounds high and a little off key, even to him. “ _Please_.” He wants to say more, wants to plead with Brian to fuck him, to make a mess of him, to split Roger open with his cock, but then Brian is curling his fingers again, seeking out his prostate with almost expert precision. Roger makes a weird little hiccup of a moan, grinding back against Brian’s fingers, and it’s with one hand that Brian finally pushes down the waistband of his boxers, just far enough to free his cock. 

Roger lifts his head from Brian’s shoulder, gripping the muscle with one hand and the hair at the nape of his neck with the other. He watches, fucking himself on Brian’s fingers as he does, as with his free hand Brian slicks the length of his cock, flushed red and painfully hard. He eases his fingers from Roger slowly, and Roger can keep himself from whining in protest because then he’s easing Roger closer, he’s pressing the head of his dick to his hole. 

Tightly, he wraps an arm around Roger again, hand spanning the small of his back and thumbing soothing circles into the goosebumps on his skin as Roger finally lowers himself onto his cock. He grips Brian tighter, nails biting into his skin as he hisses softly, leans his head back, sinks down slowly. Like Brian’s hands, like his hair, his cock is huge, and when Roger finally settles in his lap, flush against his hip bones, he feels so full he can’t quite catch his breath. When they’d first started sleeping together, before Roger had fallen stupid in love with him, back when it had been a casual thing and Freddie and Tim had both implemented the _don’t fuck in any shared living spaces_ rule after separate incidences, Roger hadn’t been able to take it all at once. He hadn’t exactly been inexperienced when he’d first started sleeping with Brian, and even so, he’d actually had to work up to be able to take all of him. He’d managed, and been quite proud of himself, actually, when he’d done so — he’d asked Freddie to buy him a cake and Freddie had called him a heathen before going out and getting him a cake anyway. That had been a lifetime ago, eight or so months, and it still manages to make his breath catch, the burn, the stretch, how full he feels, stuffed with Brian’s cock. 

He leans his head back, panting softly as he waits to adjust, for the ache in him to subside. Brian waits with him, thumbing over his skin, leaning in to mouth at the line of his jaw. “My love,” he murmurs, his breath hot against Roger’s already overheated skin. “My pretty boy. You’re so good for me.” 

Roger shivers, tugging gently at Brian’s hair. Brian grunts, biting at Roger’s skin in protest, sucking so hard at the line of his jaw that Roger can almost feel the bruise forming. “Say it again,” he demands, his voice shaking. 

Brian smiles against his skin. “My good boy,” he murmurs. “Always so good for me.” 

“Fuck,” Roger says again. His eyelashes flutter as he blinks towards the ceiling, a blistering, almost unbearable sort of heat licking up his spine as he rocks slowly up on his knees. He’s just as slow as he sinks down again, but Brian still groans beneath him, mouth still hot and wet and sucking bruises into the skin of Roger’s throat. He groans from somewhere low in chest, digging his nails into the small of Roger’s back as he pulls himself up again, drops back down. 

He moves slowly, letting himself get accustomed to the stretch, the heat, working low, almost pained sort of sounds from Brian. He’s patient, though, letting Roger move as slowly as he needs to, waiting until suddenly, it’s not enough and he needs more. He keeps his hand in Brian’s hair, tugging more out of the already messy knot, reaching behind him to grip one of the couch cushions for leverage with the other. He moves more forcefully, less carefully, bouncing on Brian’s cock as he searches again for that little spot inside him that makes his head spin almost as much as the high. 

Brian bends his leg slowly, foot against the carpet, thigh against Roger’s back, angling his hips just right so that when Roger drops back down on his cock, he sees stars. He cries out, a bit louder than is probably appropriate with all the windows open, and Brian matches the sound with a groan of his own as Roger tenses around him. He grips the couch tighter, panting loudly as he moves, more shallow now, trying to angle Brian’s cock against his prostate with every thrust. He moves more shallowly, but not any more quickly, slow and languid, lazy. Later, in the shower, maybe, under the spray of cool water, he’ll make Brian fuck him hard and fast against the tile. For now, there’s something to be said about slow, lazy sex in the late summer afternoon heat, stretched open around Brian’s dick, nailing his prostate with every shallow thrust. 

A sort of a breeze eases in from the windows, cools the sweaty skin of his back, makes him shudder in Brian’s arms. Brian moans against his skin, and Roger can feel the rumble in his chest, shudders again. He gasps, turning his face against the side of Brian’s head, moaning loudly into his hair. He moves languidly on his cock, taking his time with it, but then he sees stars again, hitting his prostate so forcefully his legs twitch. 

He jerks, panting loudly into Brian’s hair as Brian works a hand between them, curling his fingers around Roger’s dick again. He strokes him in time with Roger’s movements, thumbing over the head of his cock with each upward stroke. Roger shakes with it, heating pooling in the pit of his stomach, slumping forward into Brian’s chest and gripping the couch so tightly that his knuckles are white. 

Brian pulls him closer with the hand spread across his back, rocking his hips up to meet Roger’s thrusts as he bounces a little more frantically on his cock, a little more erratically. “Fuck,” Roger babbles, and his voice is still too high, an embarrassing keen of thing. “ _Fuck_ , wanna come, make me come.” 

Brian grunts, strokes Roger just a little bit quicker. “Wanna see you,” he says, moving his hand from Roger’s back to his jaw, lifting his head just enough that he can look at him properly. His eyes flick across Roger’s face, and he can only imagine how he looks right now — lips parted, eyes hooded, flush with heat. His hair is still matted to his forehead, worse now, and the shirt is sticking to his back with sweat. “Look at you,” Brian murmurs again, a rumble, low in his chest. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You’re so beautiful like this.” 

He thumbs over the head of his dick again as he says it, and Roger whimpers, eyes fluttering shut. “So beautiful for me, Rog,” he murmurs, sliding his hand into his hair, tugging gently at the same moment that Roger drops into his lap, and something white hot roars through him. “My beautiful boy,” he says softly, and Roger cries out again, the heat in his stomach building, growing, until it’s too much and he’s screwing his eyes shut against it, coming over both their chests, Brian’s hand, Brian’s shirt. 

He makes a series of awful, whimpering sounds, leaning his head back to gasp them towards the ceiling. Brian groans loudly as he shivers through it, and when Roger looks at him again, blinking quickly, he can see it in the way his shoulders and jaw tense. 

Ignoring the sting of oversensitivity, he rocks up on his knees again, drops back down on Brian’s cock. “Want you to come inside me,” he says, and Brian’s jaw twitches. “Need to feel you.” 

Brian leans his head back, pillowed against the couch cushions and Roger’s quick to lean over him, slotting their lips together. It’s a filthy sort of kiss, messy, and it isn’t long before he grips Roger’s hips with both hands and holds him still as he comes. Roger has to break the kiss to gasp, pressing his face to the side of Brian’s neck as Brian moans again, raw and loud. 

Roger’s panting softly when he finally lifts himself off of Brian’s cock, only to settle right back down in his lap, face to Brian’s chest, sticky with sweat. He takes a minute to catch his breath, listening to Brian’s heartbeat as it slows, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as it returns to normal. He only lifts his head again when Brian crooks a finger beneath his chin, angling his face upwards to kiss him again, lazy. 

Roger smiles against his lips. “I told you you’re in love with me,” he murmurs. 

Brian snorts. “You’re still a pain in the ass.” 

“A pain in the ass you’re in love with,” he reminds him, and Brian rolls his eyes, but still leans down to kiss him again. His smile is crooked, and Roger can feel it against his lips. “I love you too,” he reassures him, and Brian’s grin widens so much he has to pull away again. 

“I know,” he says, pushing Roger’s fringe back to kiss his forehead, and it’s a nice moment, the sort of moment that Roger would be content to stay in forever if the front door hadn’t suddenly swung open. 

The back of the couch is to the door, angled away from it just slightly so Roger knows that on the floor in front of it, him and Brian are mostly shielded from view. Even still, he knows Freddie knows, and the look he gives Roger, just visible over the back of the couch, probably looking very, thoroughly fucked, is murderous. 

It’s with a flourish that he slams the door behind him, and Roger waves, unable to find it in him to feel guilty. “You can’t be serious,” he announces. “We have one fucking rule.” 

Brian has the decency to look at least a little sheepish, but he makes no actual move to get up, only lifting his hips to tuck his dick back into his boxers. “Sorry, Fred,” he says. 

“No you’re not,” Freddie says. “And the windows are open! The flat across the way looks right in here.” 

“And I’m sure the pensioner that lives there has nothing better to do with his time than watch us shag,” Roger says. 

“I sincerely don’t think that he does,” Freddie says. He’s careful not to look at them as he walks further into the room on his way to the kitchen, stopping to toss the blanket from the back of the couch over them. “You’re both dead to me. Get decent, will you?” 

Roger sheds the shirt, tacky with come, and uses it to wipe them both down before he wraps the blanket around his waist. He kisses Brian, who’s smiling against his lips, and stands first before helping him to his feet. He hums gratefully, wrapping his arms around Roger’s waist as he kisses him again, and Roger rocks up on his toes, leaning into it, curling a hand around the back of his neck. He only pulls away when something cold and solid suddenly connects with his back, swiveling around to glare at Freddie, who’s in the kitchen doorway with a handful of ice cubes. 

“What the fuck?” Roger protests. 

“You’re wretched, both of you,” Freddie says. “We have one rule. I’m sure even you can grasp _one_ rule.” 

Roger lifts his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he says, batting his eyelashes, playing dumb. “I could remember that one room was off limits, but I couldn’t remember if it was this room or your room.” 

Something flickers across Freddie’s face, something deadly and void of emotion. Roger can see, in that look, exactly how much time he’s been spending with Deaky. “If you fucked in my bed, I’ll kill you both,” he says. 

“I’m really sorry, Fred,” Brian says, and he sounds so genuine that Roger can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him. “I tried to talk him out of it but you know what he’s like. He’s really persuasive when he wants to be.” 

Freddie hurls another ice cube at them, and Roger ducks just in time so it hits Brian square in the chest. Brian catches it before it falls to the ground, holding it to the back of his neck as he laughs. Freddie narrows his eyes. “You stoned bastards.” 

“I can roll another one to make it up to you,” Roger offers. 

Freddie looks at him and clicks his tongue. “Do you think you can keep from shagging in front of me?” 

Roger makes an indecisive noise, waving his hand. “We can try.” 

“You’re deplorable,” Freddie tells him, “and I regret every introducing you two.” 

“But look how happy we are,” Roger says, wrapping Brian’s arm around his shoulders and grinning widely. 

Freddie gags, but Roger can see in the way his expression softens at the corners exactly how much he loves them both. 

“I hate you both,” he says, anyway, but Roger knows it’ll wear off. It isn’t the first time he’s caught them shagging, and it’s impossible that it’ll be the last. 

“You don’t,” he says. “You’re in love with us both.” 

Freddie only gags again.

**Author's Note:**

> anyway im fully convinced of Roger’s praise kink and im also like 90% sure he’s got a piss kink lets fight about it on my [tumblr](http://sweetheaert.tumblr.com)! and as always feel free to hit me up if you’ve got any prompts/requests of your own :^)


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